This morning Pater Benedictus was a totally different person from the
man, who had sat over the wine the night before. Coldly and formally he
evaded the smith’s questions, until the latter had sent his son away.
Ulrich, without making any objection, had helped his father shoe the
sorrel horse, and in a few minutes, by means of a little stroking over
the eyes and nose, slight caresses, and soothing words, rendered the
refractory stallion as docile as a lamb. No horse had ever resisted the
lad, from the time he was a little child, the smith said, though for
what reason he did not know. These words pleased the monk, for he
was only too familiar with two fillies, that were perfect fiends for
refractoriness, and the fair-haired boy could show his gratitude for the
schooling he received, by making himself useful in the stable.
Ulrich must go to the monastery, so Benedictus curtly declared with the
utmost positiveness, after the smith had finished his work. At midsummer
a place would be vacant in the school, and this should be reserved
for the boy. A great favor! What a prospect--to be reared there with
aristocratic companions, and instructed in the art of painting. Whether
he should become a priest, or follow some worldly pursuit, could be
determined later. In a few years the boy could choose without restraint.
This plan would settle everything in the best possible way. The Jew need
not be injured, and the smith’s imperiled son would be saved. The monk
would hear no objections. Either the accusation against the doctor
should be laid before the chapter, or Ulrich must go to the school.
In four weeks, on St. John’s Day, so Benedictus declared, the smith and
his son might announce their names to the porter. Adam must have saved
many florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad shoes and
clothes, that he might hold his own in dress with the other scholars.
During this whole transaction the smith felt like a wild animal in the
hunter’s toils, and could say neither “yes” nor “no.” The monk did not
insist upon a promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that he
had snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained a prize for
the monastery-school and his stable--a reflection that made him very
cheerful.
Adam retrained alone beside the fire. Often, when his heart was heavy,
he had seized his huge hammer and deadened his sorrow by hard work; but
to-day he let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness and lack
of will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he stood with drooping head, as
if utterly crushed. The thoughts that moved him could not be exactly
expressed in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, where
he would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, rose before his mind.
Once the idea of closing his house, taking the boy by the hand, and
wandering out into the world with him, flitted through his brain. But
then, what would become of the Jew, and how could he leave this place?
Where would his miserable wife, the accursed, lovely sinner, find him,
when she sought him again? Ulrich had run out of doors long ago. Had
he gone to study his lessons with the Jew? He started in terror at the
thought. Passing his hands over his eyes, like a dreamer roused from
sleep, he went into his chamber, threw off his apron, cleansed his face
and hands from the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which he
only wore when he went to church or visited the doctor, and entered the
street.
The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun shone pleasantly on
the shingled roofs of the miserable houses of the Richtberg. Its rays
were reflected from the little round window-panes, and flickered over
the tree-tops on the edge of the ravine.
The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on the beeches glittered
as brightly against the dark pines, as if Spring had made them a token
of her mastery over the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pines
were not passed by, and where her finger had touched the tips of the
branches in benediction, appeared tender young shoots, fresh as the
grass by the brook, and green as chrysophase and emerald.
The stillness of morning reigned within the forest, yet it was full of
life, rich in singing, chirping and twittering. Light streamed from the
blue sky through the tree-tops, and the golden sunbeams shimmered
and danced over the branches, trunks and ground, as if they had been
prisoned in the woods and could never find their way out. The shadows
of the tall trunks lay in transparent bars on the underbrush, luxuriant
moss, and ferns, and the dew clung to the weeds and grass.
Nature had celebrated her festival of resurrection at Easter, and the
day after the morrow joyous Whitsuntide would begin. Fresh green life
was springing from the stump of every dead tree; even the rocks afforded
sustenance to a hundred roots, a mossy covering and network of thorny
tendrils clung closely to them. The wild vine twined boldly up many a
trunk, fruit was already forming on the bilberry bushes, though it
still glimmered with a faint pink hue amid the green of May. A thousand
blossoms, white, red, blue and yellow, swayed on their slender stalks,
opened their calixes to the bees, unfolded their stars to deck the
woodland carpet, or proudly stretched themselves up as straight as
candles. Grey fungi had shot up after the refreshing rain, and gathered
round the red-capped giants among the mushrooms. Under, over and around
all this luxuriant vegetation hopped, crawled, flew, fluttered, buzzed
and chirped millions of tiny, short-lived creatures. But who heeds them
on a sunny Spring morning in the forest, when the birds are singing,
twittering, trilling, pecking, cooing and calling so joyously? Murmuring
and plashing, the forest stream dashed down its steep bed over rocks and
amid moss-covered stones and smooth pebbles to the valley. The hurrying
water lived, and in it dwelt its gay inhabitants, fresh plants grew
along the banks from source to mouth, while over and around it a third
species of living creatures sunned themselves, fluttered, buzzed and
spun delicate silk threads.
In the midst of a circular clearing, surrounded by dense woods, smoked a
charcoal kiln. It was less easy to breathe here, than down in the forest
below. Where Nature herself rules, she knows how to guard beauty and
purity, but where man touches her, the former is impaired and the latter
sullied.
It seemed as if the morning sunlight strove to check the smoke from the
smouldering wood, in order to mount freely into the blue sky. Little
clouds floated over the damp, grassy earth, rotting tree-trunks, piles
of wood and heaps of twigs that surrounded the kiln. A moss-grown but
stood at the edge of the forest, and before it sat Ulrich, talking with
the coal-burner. People called this man “Hangemarx,” and in truth he
looked in his black rags, like one of those for whom it is a pity that
Nature should deck herself in her Spring garb. He had a broad, peasant
face, his mouth was awry, and his thick yellowish-red hair, which in
many places looked washed out or faded, hung so low over his narrow
forehead, that it wholly concealed it, and touched his bushy, snow-white
brows. The eyes under them needed to be taken on trust, they were so
well concealed, but when they peered through the narrow chink between
the rows of lashes, not even a mote escaped them. Ulrich was shaping an
arrow, and meantime asking the coal-burner numerous questions, and when
the latter prepared to answer, the boy laughed heartily, for before
Hangemarx could speak, he was obliged to straighten his crooked mouth by
three jerking motions, in which his nose and cheeks shared.
An important matter was being discussed between the two strangely
dissimilar companions.
After it grew dark, Ulrich was to come to the charcoal-burner again.
Marx knew where a fine buck couched, and was to drive it towards the
boy, that he might shoot it. The host of the Lamb down in the town
needed game, for his Gretel was to be married on Tuesday. True, Marx
could kill the animal himself, but Ulrich had learned to shoot too,
and if the place whence the game came should be noised abroad, the
charcoal-burner, without any scruples of conscience, could swear that he
did not shoot the buck, but found it with the arrow in its heart.
People called the charcoal-burner a poacher, and he owed his ill-name
of “Hangemarx” to the circumstance that once, though long ago, he had
adorned a gallows. Yet he was not a dishonest man, only he remembered
too faithfully the bold motto, which, when a boy, one peasant
wood-cutter or charcoal-burner whispered to another:
“Forest, stream and meadow are free.”
His dead father had joined the Bundschuh,--[A peasants’ league
which derived its name from the shoe, of peculiar shape, worn by its
members.]--adopted this motto, and clung fast to it and with it, to the
belief that every living thing in the forest belonged to him, as much
as to the city, the nobles, or the monastery. For this faith he had
undergone much suffering, and owed to it his crooked mouth and ill name,
for just as his beard was beginning to grow, the father of the reigning
count came upon him, just after he had killed a fawn in the “free”
forest. The legs of the heavy animal were tied together with ropes, and
Marx was obliged to take the ends of the knot between his teeth like a
bridle, and drag the carcass to the castle. While so doing his cheeks
were torn open, and the evil deed neither pleased him nor specially
strengthened his love for the count. When, a short time after, the
rebellion broke out in Stuhlingen, and he heard that everywhere the
peasants were rising against the monks and nobles, he, too, followed
the black, red and yellow banner, first serving with Hans Muller of
Bulgenbach, then with Jacklein Rohrbach of Bockingen, and participating
with the multitude in the overthrow of the city and castle of
Neuenstein. At Weinsberg he saw Count Helfenstein rush upon the spears,
and when the noble countess was driven past him to Heilbronn in the
dung-cart, he tossed his cap in the air with the rest.
The peasant was to be lord now; the yoke of centuries was to be broken;
unjust imposts, taxes, tithes and villenage would be forever abolished,
while the fourth of the twelve articles he had heard read aloud more
than once, remained firmly fixed in his memory “Game, birds and fish
every one is free to catch.” Moreover, many a verse from the Gospel,
unfavorable to the rich, but promising the kingdom of heaven to the
poor, and that the last shall be first, had reached his ears. Doubtless
many of the leaders glowed with lofty enthusiasm for the liberation of
the poor people from unendurable serfdom and oppression; but when Marx,
and men like him, left wife and children and risked their lives, they
remembered only the past, and the injustice they had suffered, and were
full of a fierce yearning to trample the dainty, torturing demons under
their heavy peasant feet.
The charcoal-burner had never lighted such bright fires, never tasted
such delicious meat and spicy wine, as during that period of his life,
while vengeance had a still sweeter savor than all the rest. When the
castle fell, and its noble mistress begged for mercy, he enjoyed a
foretaste of the promised paradise. Satan has also his Eden of fiery
roses, but they do not last long, and when they wither, put forth sharp
thorns. The peasants felt them soon enough, for at Sindelfingen they
found their master in Captain Georg Truchsess of Waldberg.
Marx fell into his troopers’ hands and was hung on the gallows, but only
in mockery and as a warning to others; for before he and his companions
perished, the men took them down, cut their oath-fingers from their
hands, and drove them back into their old servitude. When he at last
returned home, his house had been taken from his family, whom he found
in extreme poverty. The father of Adam, the smith, to whom he had
formerly sold charcoal, redeemed the house, gave him work, and once,
when a band of horsemen came to the city searching for rebellious
peasants, the old man did not forbid him to hide three whole days in his
barn.
Since that time everything had been quiet in Swabia, and neither in
forest, stream nor meadow had any freedom existed.
Marx had only himself to provide for; his wife was dead, and his sons
were raftsmen, who took pine logs to Mayence and Cologne, sometimes even
as far as Holland. He owed gratitude to no one but Adam, and showed in
his way that he was conscious of it, for he taught Ulrich all sorts of
things which were of no advantage to a boy, except to give him pleasure,
though even in so doing he did not forget his own profit. Ulrich was now
fifteen, and could manage a cross-bow and hit the mark like a skilful
hunter, and as the lad did not lack a love for the chase, Marx afforded
him the pleasure. All he had heard about the equal rights of men he
engrafted into the boy’s soul, and when to-day, for the hundredth time,
Ulrich expressed a doubt whether it was not stealing to kill game that
belonged to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his mouth, and
said:
“Forest, stream and meadow are free. Surely you know that.”
The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a time, and then asked:
“The fields too?”
“The fields?” repeated Marx, in surprise. “The fields? The fields are a
different matter.” He glanced as he spoke, at the field of oats he had
sown in the autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long. “The fields
are man’s work and belong to him who tills them, but the forest, stream
and meadow were made by God. Do you understand? What God created for
Adam and Eve is everybody’s property.”
As the sun rose higher, and the cuckoo began to raise its voice,
Ulrich’s name was shouted loudly several times in rapid succession
through the forest. The arrow he had been shaping flew into a corner,
and with a hasty “When it grows dusk, Marxle!” Ulrich dashed into the
woods, and soon joined his playmate Ruth.
The pair strolled slowly through the forest by the side of the stream,
enjoying the glorious morning, and gathering flowers to carry a bouquet
to the little girl’s mother. Ruth culled the blossoms daintily with the
tips of her fingers; Ulrich wanted to help, and tore the slender stalks
in tufts from the roots by the handful. Meantime their tongues were
not idle. Ulrich boastfully told her that Pater Benedictus had seen his
picture of her father, recognized it instantly, and muttered something
over it. His mother’s blood was strong in him; his imaginary world was a
very different one from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richtberg.
His father had told him much, and the doctor still more, about the wide,
wide world-kings, artists and great heroes. From Hangemarx he learned,
that he possessed the same rights and dignity as all other men, and
Ruth’s wonderful power of imagination peopled his fancy with the
strangest shapes and figures. She made royal crowns of wreaths,
transformed the little hut, the lad had built of boughs, behind the
doctor’s house, into a glittering imperial palace, converted round
pebbles into ducats and golden zechins--bread and apples into princely
banquets; and when she had placed two stools before the wooden bench on
which she sat with Ulrich her fancy instantly transformed them into a
silver coronation coach with milk-white steeds. When she was a fairy,
Ulrich was obliged to be a magician; if she was the queen, he was king.
When, to give vent to his animal spirits, Ulrich played with the
Richtberg boys, he always led them, but allowed himself to be guided by
little Ruth. He knew that the doctor was a despised Jew, that she was
a Jewish child; but his father honored the Hebrew, and the foreign
atmosphere, the aristocratic, secluded repose that pervaded the solitary
scholar’s house, exerted a strange influence over him.
When he entered it, a thrill ran through his frame; it seemed as if he
were penetrating into some forbidden sanctuary. He was the only one of
all his playfellows, who was permitted to cross this threshold, and he
felt it as a distinction, for, in spite of his youth, he realized that
the quiet doctor, who knew everything that existed in heaven and on
earth, and yet was as mild and gentle as a child, stood far, far
above the miserable drudges, who struggled with sinewy hands for mere
existence on the Richtberg. He expected everything from him, and Ruth
also seemed a very unusual creature, a delicate work of art, with whom
he, and he only, was allowed to play.
It might have happened, that when irritated he would upbraid her with
being a wretched Jewess, but it would scarcely have surprised him, if
she had suddenly stood before his eyes as a princess or a phoenix.
When the Richtberg lay close beneath them, Ruth sat down on a stone,
placing her flowers in her lap. Ulrich threw his in too, and, as the
bouquet grew, she held it towards him, and he thought it very pretty;
but she said, sighing:
“I wish roses grew in the forest; not common hedge-roses, but like those
in Portugal--full, red, and with the real perfume. There is nothing that
smells sweeter.”
So it always was with the pair. Ruth far outstripped Ulrich in her
desires and wants, thus luring him to follow her.
“A rose!” repeated Ulrich. “How astonished you look!”
Her wish reminded him of the magic word she had mentioned the day
before, and they talked about it all the way home, Ulrich saying that
he had waked three times in the night on account of it. Ruth eagerly
interrupted him, exclaiming:
“I thought of it again too, and if any one would tell the what it was,
I should know what to wish now. I would not have a single human being in
the world except you and me, and my father and mother.”
“And my little mother!” added Ulrich, earnestly.
“And your father, too!”
“Why, of course, he, too!” said the boy, as if to make hasty atonement
for his neglect.